Fantasizing about reality

One thing I love to do in role-play is to add authentic touches to a scene. Because of that, I spend (waste?) a lot of time reading historical accounts of situations that might provide scene-fodder. I love sites like corpun.com that document the history of corporal punishment, and (as you've seen) I do a lot of my own digging in the archives. I also scour Ebay and the like, looking for authentic uniforms, accessories, insignia. And of course authentic implements.

I know that not everyone approves of this. Some people feel it's too close to the bone, perhaps even that it trivialises real suffering. I can see that argument, but I don't agree with it. The scenes I do in role-play may borrow some elements from reality, but I use the parts I find appealing and discard the parts I don't. The resulting scenes aren't the real thing and in playing with them I don't condone the real thing. Even a school caning was pretty unpleasant in reality.

Well, that's the principle. But just occasionally there's a news item that's just too perfect, and I came across one today. It's about a police officer in Fort Worth, Texas, who caught an 18-year-old girl doing naughty things with her boyfriend in a parked car:

A six-member Tarrant County jury convicted Craig Arlen Murrah of official oppression because he mistreated the 18-year-old after ordering her out of her car in Oakhurst Park shortly after 1 a.m. on June 22, 2007.

The woman, now 20, testified during the two-day trial that she and her boyfriend were having sex in the car when they saw the lights of a patrol car as it pulled into the parking lot.

She tried to get dressed but was still nude from the waist down when Murrah made her get out of the car and put her hands behind her back. That caused her to drop the shirt covering her lower body. Murrah forced her to bend over and spanked her on her naked bottom, she said.

Official oppression? I didn't know that was an offence!

But I don't need to add much to turn this into a fantasy. In my version, of course, I am that cop. I recognise the girl as the spoilt daughter of a local politician, who knows just how displeased Daddy will be if she's brought home in a police car. There'll be no way to keep it out of the local paper: her father's "family values" campaign will be in tatters, and her longed-for Caribbean cruise will evaporate in an instant. How much easier to accept the spanking she knows she deserves, right there in the parking lot...

Hmm. I may have to photograph this.

Japanese schoolgirl switched in the snow

Kami Robertson was here for a few days around New Year. The snow just kept falling, and we thought that a Japanese schoolgirl in the snow might be quite appealing. So we came up with a little photostory...


Young Haruka is a lucky girl. Her uncle gave her two ponies for her birthday last summer, and she has been having a lot of fun taking care of them, feeding them, making much of them, and occasionally riding them.

But now it's winter, and it's not so much fun going out to feed them in the dark evenings. last night she stopped off at a friend's house after school, and she was tired when she got home. She decided they could manage for once.

But overnight there was a big snow storm, and in the morning her ponies did not look happy at all. Haruka's uncle was not pleased when he realised she had left them to fend for themselves. What had she been thinking of? Her poor ponies had had no shelter, no blankets. Their drinking water had been frozen solid, and in the deep snow there was no grass that they could reach to eat.

Haruka was horrified by her own thoughtlessness and didn't protest when her uncle insisted that she go out to feed them in only her summer school uniform. If the ponies had spent the night in the cold, without their blankets, she could suffer a little cold while she fed them.

But that was not all her uncle had in mind. Once the ponies had been fed and watered, he handed her a knife and sent her to cut a switch from the ash-tree at the edge of the paddock. She knew what that meant, and though her heart sank she knew she deserved it. So she fetched the switch and presented it to him obediently. And obediently she bent over the fence and let him lift her skirt, the winter air chill on her bare skin.



He took his time, gliding the switch up and down. Haruka shivered as she waited. At last he began, flicking the switch down time and time again until Haruka's bottom and thighs were criss-crossed with thin red lines.



He wasn't brutal with her, but the thin switch bit sharply on her cold flesh. Haruka yelped and squirmed, the fire in her bottom displacing any thought of the chill winter air.

It was a very chastened Haruka who was eventually allowed to climb off the fence, rub her bottom, and run inside to warm herself in front of the big log fire.


Haruka has posted her own account, with some more pictures.

A smacked bottom on display in the snow

What do you do when a little brat throws snowballs at you in a public park? And then, despite all your warnings, takes hold of a tree and shakes it so that snow cascades all over you? Well, if the brat is EmmaJane, you take her by the ear and lead her to the nearest bench, and there you take down her pants and smack her soundly on the bare bottom.

And then, to make sure she understands how cold and unpleasant snow can be, you make her sit bare-bottomed in it until she pleads prettily.



Finally, you let her up, her red bottom still glowing from the spanking...


...and put her on display over a convenient gate to reflect on her misbehaviour while you admire the imprint in the snow.





More details of how this happened EmmaJane's blog...

A Victorian School

I do love book catalogues. Here's a description I just found:

Regulations for the Catholic Girls' School at Ugbrook

Chudleigh: printed by J.E. Searle. 1841. 8vo., (2) + 8 + (2) pp., original pale green card covers. A fine copy. First (and only?) edition: very rare. OCLC, COPAC & NSTC together locate copies only at British Library and Emory University, Atlanta (Pitts Theological Library). There is also a copy at Georgetown University.

A nice example of a prospectus for a private girls' school in early Victorian Devon. The school was established by Lord Clifford of Chudleigh for the education of the female children of the tenants, servants, or labourers on his estate, or tradesmen in the employ of his family at Ugbrook.

The Regulations include rules for corporal punishment (children must 'submit willingly'). Of the 16 Regulations, no fewer than 7 are to do with punishments for faults, the emphasis being on 'disgrace', 'obstinacy', 'penance', 'correction', and so forth. Orphan girls were each to be allocated to 'a respectable married woman of known mild character in the neighbourhood', who would act in loco parentis.

At £200 or so for 8 pages, it seems a bit steep. But still.

New Year caning in the snow

Kami Robertson is visiting me for New Year. We were originally planning to go to Allentown for the Tar Barrels parade, but it snowed quite heavily during the evening even down here in the valley and the Met Office were promising heavier falls overnight, so heading up into the hills seemed a bad idea.

But as midnight approached the sky cleared and the fresh snow glowed under a nearly full moon. So we headed out into the countryside, armed with a cane and a camera. And just down the road we found a nicely placed gate.


As the hour approached Kami took down her jeans and climbed onto the gate. And as the clocks struck twelve I gave her a smart dozen.


The caning lasted quite a bit longer than the clocks took to strike, because the young lady wriggled so much.






And as all good-girl canings should, it ended with a hug:


There was actually much more snow than shows in the photos, but I had nowhere to put the flash but on the ground and a lot of the snow is in shadow.

Here's a picture of Kami's bottom half an hour afterwards, back in the warm and after the gentle application of some soothing cream. The marks would be a little low for some girls, but for Kami this is just right. The group of three strokes on top of one another in the crease probably account for some of the wriggling. She's very tender there this morning.


Kami says that the caning was much more painful than even a normal "cold caning": if you want to know more about that, read Kami's own account - with a different set of pictures of the event.

Happy New Year!

Punishment in the Hoo Union Workhouse, 1841

I've recently unearthed a rich vein of scene fodder in the British Library's collection of 19th-century periodicals. Emma Jane recently made two wonderful posts about a scene we did involving James Miles, master of the Hoo Union workhouse in Kent. The backstory for the scene was real: in 1841, Miles was examined before the Rochester magistrates for "indecently flogging girl inmates". The Satirist commented in January of that year:

The excuse offered by the wretched master of the Hoo union workhouse for flogging [girls] - a charge now under strict investigation - is that they are more tender than youthful culprits of the other sex, and that, consequently, there is more "feeling" about them...

John Bull reported the proceedings in more detail:

We do not extract the following morceau from the examination of the master of some Union Bastille, to show the barbarities which are practised in those dens, but, on the contrary, to exhibit the "finery" of language adopted by the unfortunate victims of oppression in describing their sufferings :-

Eliza Screese examined - I was punished several times by the master, who beat me with a birch rod on my bare back. I had all my things off but my "change" and my flannel petticoat,and that was tied round my waist every time I was flogged. By my "change" I mean my chemise. I had nothing else on except shoes and stockings. I had pulled off my other things by order of the defendant, who then flogged me with a birch rod on my naked back. He made me pull the chemise sleeve off, and tie my clothes round my waist, so that I was naked to my waist. I was beaten on the shoulders, and as low down as the strings of my petticoat. I was beaten just the same way more than once. The master once pulled up my clothes, and beat me on the bare person. I was beaten each time in the women's hall. I laid myself on the table. Fanny Roberts and Mrs. Low held me by the hands. I saw other persons flogged in the same was as I was. The defendant's wife is matron, but I was never corrected by her when I was naughty.

The delicacy on the part of a pauper in calling a shift a "change" and eventually a "chemise," is perhaps one of the most curious signs of the times that has yet been exhibited.

The master was sent for trial at the Assizes. The Age commented in February:

We are glad to find that the Justices of the Peace for that district of the County of Kent, in which the Hoo Union is situated, have met, and come to the determination of prosecuting MILES, the Master of the Workhouse, who was proved to have been guilty of such atrocious and disgusting conduct towards the unfortunate charity girls under his control. We do not wish to prejudge the case ;but we cannot help saying, that if the Jury do not pay the closest attention to the evidence, and fearlessly give their verdict, a precedent may be set which will work with awful results throughout England.

But in April The Satirist reported again:

Miles, the flogging master of the Hoo Union, has had a lucky escape for the want of a prosecutor. The Poor-law commissioners decline to prosecute, as is but natural ; they have no very strong objection to the flogging system, provided it can be carried on without scandal. They consequently left the affair to take its chance. The Government sees no necessity for interference ; and the county justices, who first took the matter up, now abandon it altogether. All this clearly shows that there is no innate repugnance to the practice of flogging in workhouses, if means are found to keep the "sufferers" quiet. Miles will learn to be prudent from the past. He will indulge his appetite for flogging more discreetly in future. Flogging, so as not to be found out, will be the great point with such masters of workhouses as Mr. Miles.

And this provides the background for our scene. Eliza is back in the workhouse, and James Miles and the Poor-law Commissioner are following the paper's exhortation. They will make sure young Eliza regrets causing them such inconvenience. This time there will be no witnesses, though no doubt the other girls will hear what has happened and will learn the value of silence...

I'm just back from a weekend with Haron and Abel and many old friends. It was Haron's birthday (well, nearly) and Abel had orchestrated a conspiracy to surprise her. This involved tempting her away for 24 hours while a few of us set up the house with all the deckings of a surprise school-themed birthday party: Food, drink, glittery decorations and a most magnificent CAKE, procured by Abel and adorned with a book inscribed "School Rules" and a crook-handled cane. Eventually Haron arrived, most satisfactorily amazed and bemused. Many birthday spankings followed, and lots of other scenes.

Towards the end, EmmaJane (much beaten already), whispered in my ear that she wanted to do a joint scene with me and Abel. "Do you have anything in particular in mind?" I asked. "No," she said. "Surprise me."

So this is what we came up with.

Cast:

Maria, lady's maid to Lady Fortescue: EmmaJane
Sir Henry Fortescue: HH
Mr. Jenkins, the estate manager: Abel

Domestic staff are in short supply these days, and it was a great relief when Jenkins found Maria. At last the graceless Betty could return to her destined role of chambermaid. And though I had heard of the scandal with the under-butler at her previous place, Maria did have experience as a lady's maid. I decided to give her a second chance, and for a year all seemed well.

Well, that is, until Maria failed to appear last Sunday morning, and the skivvy sent to rouse her found her room empty and her valise gone. Gone too were the silver cruets and candlesticks from the dining-room table: in better times the butler would have locked them safely away before retiring, but in these difficult days his post was vacant too. So it fell to the estate manager, Mr. Jenkins, to raise the hue and cry. And the girl did not get far: he found her by the coach-road, where no doubt some accomplice would have come to whisk her away. And there in her valise was the missing silverware.

In the mean time, though, her ladyship had discovered that an emerald brooch was gone, missing from its place in her jewellery box. A valuable heirloom, worn only for fine occasions.

Mr. Jenkins and I conferred and decided on a course of action. The girl would not be easy to replace and the house would be unmanageable without her. Perhaps, even with this lapse, we could make something of her. Once she understood the consequences of such behaviour, she would not offend again. But the emeralds must be returned.

So it was that I stood in my study as Jenkins brought the miscreant in, the great mahogany desk cleared of its clutter. He put her in front of me, her clothes dirty and wet from her trek through the woods, and I took up the questioning.

"Well, Maria. Is this how you repay us for taking you in, for giving you a post when no-one else would have you?"

She tried to look down and away, but I took her chin and forced her face towards me. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you, girl. You could end up in the House of Correction for this, and for a good long time, too. Unless we decide to punish you ourselves, of course."

Her eyes took in the room and the rack of canes by my side. She knew we had the evidence to commit her, and the magistrates would impose any sentence we wished. Hard labour and whippings were the order of the day.

"But the first thing we want, my girl, is the emeralds. Where are Lady Fortescue's emeralds?"

Her eyes widened at that, and she shook her head. "I don't know about the emeralds, Sir. I did take the silver, and I'm sorry for it, but I didn't take the emeralds."

Jenkins and I had considered this possibility, and we knew what we would do. "Very well," I said, "so you have concealed them. But you won't deceive us that easily. You will have to be searched. Take off your clothes, girl. All of them."

She baulked at that. Her hands came up as if to cover herslf, even though she was fully clothed. And then she twisted away, and would have run if Jenkins had not caught her by the shoulders. And then a sharp smack rang out; I didn't even see it, but a handprint appeared across her left cheek.

She understood then. Hesitatingly, she started to remove her clothing, piece by piece. Jenkins took each item from her, checked it over, and folded it carefully upon the sideboard. Twice she hesitated, but proceeded when it became clear that Jenkins would happily strip her himself if would not do it. Eventually she stood before us in nothing but her drawers, blushing and trying to cover her breasts with her hands.

"Hands away, girl. We need to see that you're not hiding anything. And I said all your clothes."

And so at last the drawers came off too. She bent to slide them down, and with Jenkins behind her and me in front, there wasn't much she could do to cover herself. Not from all directions at once.

Jenkins and I exchanged glances. "Well, we don't seem to have found them yet, Mr. Jenkins. I'm afraid you will have to check inside. Over the desk, please, Maria."

She fought us again at that, but what can a slight girl do against two well-built men? Soon we had her in place. I held her hands over her head to stretch her out while Jenkins spread her legs and carried out the inspection. The first inspection, anyway. Though he seemed thorough, the girl wriggled and squirmed enough that he might have missed something. So we exchanged places and I repeated the procedure, to make quite sure.

Yet there was nothing. "Did you hide them somewhere, Maria? Somewhere you could come back for them?" She wouldn't answer. "A touch of the cane, I think, Mr. Jenkins. That should loosen her tongue."

The next few minutes do not bear detailed description. The slashing cane, the writhing bottom, the milk-white skin painted with scarlet lines until all the gaps were filled. And the yelps that turned to pleas as the cane rose and fell. I do not know how many strokes he gave her, but certainly dozen upon dozen.

Yet still she denied it. Still she would not tell us where she had hidden the jewels. I was ready to believe her, but then I lifted her head, to look in her eyes to make sure. And I caught an expression on her face that told a different story. No, she was holding out on us. And, though she had quieted now, this was not to be borne.

So I took my place and laid the cane again along its well-worn path. This time there was nowhere unmarked for it to land: stripes fell over stripes and weals rose where tramlines overlapped. I caned her fast and hard, until eventually her shoulders shook and her cries turned to sobs.

We let her cry for a while, and then lifted her to her feet. She no longer thought to cover herself, and there was no longer any resistance on her tear-streaked face.

“Well, Mr. Jenkins. I believe she may have learnt her lesson. But there is one more place that the emeralds might be. Lock her away for a few days, and have her well purged each night: we shall soon know if she has swallowed them.”